


Green Waffles and Cold Covers

by PurpleLex



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: (and a smidge of angst but only if you squint), Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleLex/pseuds/PurpleLex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire awoke on a peaceful Friday morning to obnoxious snoring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Waffles and Cold Covers

**Author's Note:**

> This fluffy lil one shot is a Christmas present for my fantastic friend and fellow shipper, Nat (sylarthritis at tumblr!). Hope you enjoy it, sy-ister! ;)
> 
> A couple notes on some nuances:
> 
> 1\. I learned from Heroes Wiki that Alexandra is Sandra Bennet’s full first name.  
> 2\. In episode “Eris Quod Sum” of S3, Elle calls Claire ‘Dorothy’, in reference to the ‘Wonderful Wizard of Oz’.  
> 3\. Simon is the name of one of Nathan’s sons.  
> 4\. This is set at least a century in the future.
> 
> And begin!

  [](http://s1283.photobucket.com/user/lilac_lex77/media/gwampcc-prompt_zpsba1875ca.png.html)  


Claire awoke on a peaceful Friday morning to obnoxious snoring. Everything else about the environment was picture perfect enough for those Hallmark cards that had gone out of business years ago. The morning birds were chirping in the periods that the rain let up, the covers were thrown about in a comfortable way, and the sunlight was filtering through just dim enough to make anyone want to curl up and go back to sleep if they dared awake now. 

Instead, the snoring made her crack her eyes open.

He had managed to spoon them together in the middle of the night — like usual — and now one of his arms was under her head, the other slung over her waist. Turning around in his grip, she grinned at the sight of him. Long strands of hair were flopped over Sylar’s forehead. A few bits could be seen sticking up in the back, too, from the limited view she had. Of course, the real humor was in how his cheek was smashed against the pillow, mouth half-opened as he breathed loud. 

Leaning forward, Claire nuzzled his neck. The snoring abruptly stopped, hand on her waist gripping more firmly. “Hey.”

His voice was scratched with sleep. Hers was softer. “Morning.” 

“Isn’t it Christmas?” 

“Oh right.” She dropped a chaste kiss on his lips. “Merry Christmas. You were snoring again.”

His lips tried to lift in a smirk but his eyes were already at half-mast. “Sorry.”

She shrugged and then turned towards the edge of the bed, moving as if to get up. Sylar’s hands wound around her with more strength than she figured he’d have right now, and he brought them back face-to-face. She looked at him with amusement. “What?”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I have been made aware,” she teased.

One of his fingers lifted from her shoulder blades and suddenly the comforter was over their heads. “We don’t have to go anywhere. Come here.”

She slid against him even as she spoke. “I thought we didn’t have to leave — and now you want me to move?”

Sylar kissed across the crown of her head and to her temple as she wrapped her arms around him. Their legs were easily tangled. “You’re too awake for six AM.”

Giggling at his grumble, she then sighed and closed her eyes. “Not for long.”

* * *

It was many hours later that she finally dragged herself from the warmth of their bed and his long form. Like this, curled up and half-asleep, Sylar seemed to be a mass of limbs. Every time she moved — be it with the purpose of moving closer or farther away — an arm or leg was there.  

By the time she had dozed and awoken three times in a row, he was there with sharp eyes and a smirk, mouth on her shoulder. That time she hadn’t wanted to move in the least.

It had been a while since they had a day to themselves like this. However, nearly four hours, a dozen mini-naps, and a make-out session later, her stomach was growling. Claire’s ability may keep her body intact — more or less — in the wake of hunger, but her mouth and mind were definitely on board with getting food. 

She shimmied out of his grasp, placing a ghost of a kiss to the inside of his wrist where his arm was sprawled across the mattress. Standing from the low bed, she grabbed his shirt and pulled it over her head to ward off the cold before she could locate her fleece robe. They may not be considered close to the south pole — as they were on the side of the southern hemisphere, now — but winter was determined to have itself felt, even if it was in the form of a dark rain storm.  

Tip-toeing out of the room and down the hall, she flipped on the kitchen light. Claire wandered between the refrigerator, freezer, and pantry for several minutes, biting her lip as she considered what to make. A grin lit up her face when she had the thought.  

Waffles. Of course.

She whisked up the battered while she thought fondly about Sylar boasting the title of best waffle maker in the family. That was definitely not a title she would ever fight him for — the kids alone would protest. Though her own dad had made waffles quite well, she had certainly not inherited it. She was purely a box mix baker. 

Had she told Sylar that about her dad? Claire plugged in the waffle iron. She nearly laughed to herself at the memory. Yes, she had told him — she remembered now. It had made Sylar stay adamantly away from the waffle iron for a week until he caved at little Amelia’s pouty face. 

That was… nearly eighty years ago. The first time they had kids, tried the whole family experience. That was a high point — as this was, too. They would hit another low in a couple decades, surely. Just as before. When the natural cycle of life and death took its course, leaving only the abnormal variables — them — behind. The thought saddened her. Christmas had been effectively cancelled, but maybe they could set something up early next year for their grandchildren….

Hands encircled her hips then and Sylar dropped his chin against her cheek. “Waffles?” 

She put her hands over his, twisting her head in order to pull him in for a long, almost soothing, kiss. He could see what she was thinking and feeling, surely, but he only smiled when their lips separated. “Festive waffles,” she corrected with an impish expression. 

He raised his brow. She reached out to open up the waffle iron. Sylar laughed. “Green? Interesting choice.” 

“Either that or red — and we have the raspberry syrup still.”

“Ah.” She was quite proud at her logic, though the happiness radiating from her quickly switched to being because of what her husband was doing. He spun and lifted her up on the counter effortlessly, mischievous look on his face. 

“You need a haircut,” she murmured, pulling him forward.

“Now?” He joked, hands skimming under what used to be his shirt. It was claimed now and the only person that would be taking it off would be him, as she most definitely wouldn’t. Not as if the former was a very unlikely happenstance, though.

Claire shook her head at his question, capturing his lips. 

This part — when they both finally gave in — was the easiest. The passion. It was a dynamic with a particularly interesting history. Initially both ignored it, then Sylar sought it and Claire resisted, then she sought and he resisted. It went back and forth like that over decades until they finally, inevitably, met in the middle at the same time. That had not been the start of this life for them — the open love and family. But, it had been a start all the same. 

All they had needed was that start.

They parted several times in the meantime so the batter could be cooked up. However, once there was nothing left in the bowl and the waffle iron could be turned off, their actions became more frenzied. Sylar was panting and Claire’s fingers were playing with the waistband of his sweatpants in just a few short minutes.

Naturally it was at this point that the door banged open.

Sylar tensed, eyes flashing with that calculating manner she knew so well. Claire tensed as well, though her face twisted more in confusion. It was only a few seconds before the voices came filtering from the door, where all sorts of clatter was commencing.

“Be quiet-“ 

      “Oh, they’re up-“

             “Hey! That’s my-“

                     “I was just borrowing it.” 

“Shush you guys!” 

     “What are they, coma patients?”

             “You ruined it!” 

“Ha-ha.”

                     “Did not!” 

     “They’ll be up, just relax.” 

             “I swear I’ll make them ground you next time.”

“Oh my god, Simon, if you don’t shut up about-“ 

             “Thank you!”

                     “You’re picking her side?”

     “You two are idiots.” 

“It’s not about sides!”

Claire and Sylar were presentable by the time the five teenagers and young adults — but really children, if you judged them by their behavior with each other — came filtering in. Ivy was first, the only one to remain silent in the conversation they heard. 

She shared an eye roll with them before plopping down on at the long kitchen table, resting her head and forearms on the table tiredly. Claire and Sylar shared a humorous smirk. Ivy was a couple numbers removed cousin of the rest of their children, courtesy of one of Peter and Emma’s lineage lines. Darien was, too. 

“Syrup.” 

Sylar nodded and went to fetch both that and the butter while Claire grabbed the waffles, silverware, and extra plates. 

Simon and Dorothy were interrupted in their argument by the sight of the waffles when they came through the door. Their expressions perfectly highlighted their disconnect — Simon grinned and Dorothy frowned in a lack of amusement.  

“I thought we weren’t doing Christmas this year,” Alexandra said what they were all thinking as she slid into the seat next to the window.

Claire sat back as they all made grabby hands across the table. It was best to wait, she had long since learned. Instead, she shrugged. “We aren’t, not really. Do you see a tree put up in your absence?”

Simon snorted.

Sylar passed the butter to Darien. “What happened to the trip? You three leaving with your cousins was the reason we didn’t do anything.” 

Dorothy frowned and the chocolate-colored puppy dog eyes of doom were out on full display. Claire knew by now that they were purely Sylar’s fault. “There was a blizzard. The hotel shut down and we were kicked out.” 

Sylar’s expression turned momentarily upset. Claire could read it easily, even as the rest of the kids were oblivious and turned to talking amongst themselves. She put a hand on his under the table, catching his gaze with hers. He softened.  

The easiest way to provoke his Hunger after all these years was through his protective streak. She knew that by now, nipping it in the bud with a smile and playful elbow in his ribs. He tried to tickle her thigh. In this instance, perhaps they were the children. 

* * *

Curled up with her husband in front of the electric fireplace, touchscreen television, and tinted plate glass windows that made up their living room was exactly how Claire expected to spend Christmas Eve. Their three youngest kids, and cousins Ivy and Darien, all sprawled across the rest of the furniture either conversing loudly or wrestling over the remote, did not exactly fit into that picture. 

She smiled anyway as Sylar huffed in mild annoyance against her hair where he rested behind her. She chuckled. Simon eventually won out as ruling champion of the remote and selected a Christmas movie no one but Ivy had heard of.  

By the time the opening sequence finished, Sylar and Alexandra were groaning — though him more quietly. Obviously, it was going to be of the parody horror genre. Her daughter’s dismissal was much more simple than Sylar’s. Anything horror annoyed him, really, given his… past.

Claire shushed him anyway. He pinched her arm. She smirked back at him — really, after all these years, it was amazing how he still tried to go the painful route when trying to tease her. She intertwined their fingers where their hands were rested across her chest and Sylar let it go, withstanding the movie for a good forty minutes. 

The short power outage later was one hundred percent his fault and she made sure to tell the kids it was one hundred percent the weather’s fault.  

* * *

Once upon a time, the idea of eventually looking the same age as her children upset Claire. More than anything, it terrified her. The very idea that she would have to stop calling them her children around perfect strangers was a stab to the heart. 

The thing is that idea was based on the world she grew up in — the world her dad thought would last forever. Yet things changed and human perception fell under that list. With all the abilities that were known out there, after so many decades, few batted their eyes at her anymore. Few knew her real name, either, when she used it.

It didn’t command crowds anymore. 

Claire was oddly relieved and she could tell Sylar was too, even if he would never say so when she asked. Not that he denied it, either. He could never lie to her.

“Dorothy,” Sylar called from where he was taking in the state of the entry hall. Dropped bags, shoes, snow shoes, and random what looked to be touristy purchases were tossed about without a care in the world given to them. 

“Dad!” She whined, even as she came walking. She crossed her arms at him. Claire shook her head at the scene as she stood at the other end of the entry as parental support. Most of the time this was her — the mess just happened to hit on what she called Sylar’s OCD.

“What?” He asked with genuine befuddlement.

“My name.”

He narrowed his eyes, still not understanding what she was prodding at. 

She threw up her hands as dramatically as only a seventeen year old could if they set their mind to it. “I told you two, I don’t want to be called ‘Dorothy’. It’s so old sounding. I like ‘Dorie’.”

“I hope you know how insulting that is,” Claire butted in.

The young girl was more than smart enough to wear a slightly embarrassed look. “I know, I know, it’s a nickname someone called you-“

“And that came from a book series that’s been lost to your generation.” Claire sighed. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz book deserved the praise of a few more years than it got. No matter how young she looked, this was one of those moments where she felt unsettlingly old. 

“Dorie,” Sylar said slowly. “Tell your brother and sister to come clean this up. If it’s not spotless by the morning-“

“They’ll get grave punishment,” Dorothy finished a bit melodramatically and with a nod. “You two idiots!” She was already yelling as she walked away to the staircase.  

Claire wore a satisfied expression once their daughter was out of the room. “With that one, we did good. I don’t know what happened to the others,” she said with mock thoughtfulness. 

Sylar smirked, coming to cup her jaw. “It’s fate. She corrals them like Noah did.”

“Maybe next time it will be Sarah?”

Sylar rested his forehead against hers. “Claire….”

She took a deep breath, arms winding around his neck as she rubbed her thumbs in circles against the back of his neck. “Just think about it. We have time. Besides, some of the names have to come from your side eventually.” 

“I thought we were doing that with the Petrelli names,” he remarked after a beat, joking. His eyes were light again. 

Claire raised on her toes. “Don’t even start.”  

* * *

In the wee hours of the new morning, Sylar traced patterns on the skin of her back. She would say it was done absently, as he already knew her body well, but everything he did had a purpose and this was something he had done more times than she could count. She smiled sleepily into the sheets. 

“What are you thinking about?”

“The odds of extraterrestrial life,” he quipped easily.

Claire reached back to try to smack him for that. She only managed to get his elbow. Sighing, she pulled the cold comforter from where it was hanging almost entirely off the bed and covered herself up to her chin. He huffed from where his hand was now weighed down, body half-covered. 

She put her hand behind her back and found his, lacing their fingers together. He settled against her side a scarce few seconds after that. The immortal blonde closed her eyes at the comforting weight of his chin in the crook of her neck. 

“You were tracing something,” she pointed out sleepily as the heavy curtains moved on accord of Sylar’s telekinesis, shrouding the room in darkness completely.  

He only made a noncommittal noise, as if he didn’t know what she was talking about. She knew she was right from that alone.

“On my back, you were tracing something.”

“Mm. Christmas lights.”

She could have laughed. “What?”

“Alexandra wanted us to put them up while they were gone.” 

Claire nudged his ribs with her elbow. He moaned. “And you just remembered? Now? Are you kidding me?” 

“I was distracted.”  

She could hear the smirk in his voice alone. This time, she did laugh. 

Her question was forgotten for the time being as she fell asleep. Questions and answers between them, though, were never truly lost. The other could only avoid them for so long before they demanded an answer. For what it is worth, Claire did dream that night that he was tracing the words ‘love stays here’ across her spine and ribs. Her dream was right. 

Even though she did not remember it in the morning, she woke with a smile on her face from the nudging persistence of it, even despite the empty bed. She would take her time getting ready, then, because no one but Sylar and perhaps Alexandra would be awake, sitting quietly on the deck with separate books and cups of tea.

She would take her time because she would not want to disturb them in their companionable moments, as she never did. Rather, she would stand at the kitchen island countertop with a cup of coffee and watch them across the way, reflecting on her life. Above all, she would reflect on how he and she made it here.  

Nearly two centuries ago, it disgusted her. A century and a half ago, it seemed impossible. A century ago, she was afraid it wouldn’t be able to last once it was started. Sylar had called it fate and destiny a couple times over the years. Sometimes it had been in frustration, sometimes in as close to pleading as he got, sometimes in determination.  

After all this time, she couldn’t see it as anything else. If he was not here, now, Claire could not imagine that she would be living a happy life, let alone a bearable one. 

All of that would go through her head, as it had before. For now, before any of that happened, she cuddled perfectly against Sylar and listened to his steadily beating heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> And these are the spoiler-y notes:
> 
> 1\. I’m not sure it is easily detected, but Claire has named all of their children so far after people important to their lives. Some of these names’ reasons are stated, most aren’t, but they are there nonetheless.  
> 2\. The Noah mentioned by name was their son.  
> 3\. The mention of ‘Sarah’ is in reference to Sylar’s mother.  
> 4\. Sylar’s comment near the end about ‘Petrelli names’ is in reference to the time they thought they were related, which would make any Petrelli names familial ones for him, too.
> 
> Thanks for reading and happy holidays!


End file.
